


The Adventures of Lady Crittermaid and Her Merry Band of Tadpoles

by MerryElderberry



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: A Little Death, Corruption, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illithids, Multi, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Temptation, Vampires, Witches, figuratively speaking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29036274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryElderberry/pseuds/MerryElderberry
Summary: A series of one-shots set in the world of Baldur's Gate 3, starring YOU, Lady Crittermaid, a female half-elf and alleged ranger who was **barely** out of Baldur's Gate Parks & Rec training when the illithid ship snatched her up.Rating and relationships might change as the one-shots add up.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader, Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. The One with all the Apple Metaphors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short rest and party banter.

“Are you sure that you are a half-elf?”

Astarion is leaning against a tree, sunshine dappling his fussy leather doublet.

“What do you mean?” you ask, as Wyll looks at him curiously. “Yeah, I’m a half-elf. Just like Shadowheart.”

“Sweetheart, you look nothing like Shadowheart. Or me. Or even one of our magically-endowed friends, which also raises questions about your human ancestry. Not that anyone in Faerûn goes around calling other people half-human.”

Lae’zel cracks her apple like a walnut instead of biting into it. It’s hard to tear your eyes off the maimed fruit, but you do it to stare at Astarion.

“I’m pretty sure that I have elven ancestry. I can see in the dark. Also, ears,” you say, pointing at the bane of your Baldurian school years. Your mom gave you the sight, your dad the ears, and none of them looked particularly elven, and many of your childhood friends in the Outer City had similar mixed traits.

“Of course. Only thing is, we are hardly the only race with pointy ears,” Astarion waves his hand in Lae’zel’s direction. “Case in point.”

“Keep implying that this puny crittermaid is part Githyanki and you will find yourself at the hard point of my sword.” says Lae’zel, swallowing the apple’s core whole.

“I would never dare to suggest that,” Astarion says, putting his arms up in mock conciliation and winking at Wyll, who doesn’t wink back. “Tieflings, though, also have horns like that forest god of yours. And pointy ears. Goblins too. Actually, goblins are quite small – closer to your height than elves, in any case. Are you absolutely sure that your ancestors were elves and not, say, a horny goblin bruiser or acquaintance of our warlock’s chatelaine?”

It’s Wyll’s turn to threaten Astarion with steel, but as the weapon in his hand is a butter knife the menacing effect is a bit lackluster. “Show some respect to the lady, or shut your mouth.”

You wonder whether Wyll means you or Myzora, his cambion patroness with a hold on his soul, and shrug it off as unimportant just as quickly. You stand up to pat the dust of the road off your leggings, but also to stare Astarion down. He’s trying to prickle you, see what makes you tick. He looks up at you with an intact red apple in his left hand, a slick silvery dagger in his right and a sly smile on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I think that you are jealous of my ears,” you say, bending your knee just a tiny bit, a gesture practiced and mastered in Baldur's Gate Parks and Rivers Ranger School to assert dominance with wild animals and children by inching into his personal space. If Astarion feels dominated by you, he doesn't show it. “After all, I was able to hear your blade sliding out in the middle of a crash site, waves and all.”

Nothing, not even a flinch. It's time to try for bravado.

You reach for his apple and, in one smooth motion, take a huge bite out of it. Too big for your mouth, in fact, although you try to disguise that by keeping eye contact with Astarion.

It doesn’t work. You bit more than you could handle. You know that right now you look like a pointy-eared hamster, the ultimate crittermaid, and Astarion knows that you know. Heat creeps up from your chest to your neck as you are forced to chew down painfully slowly. Wyll has pursed his lips, hiding a chuckle, and Lae'zel is scoffing. The seconds stretch awkwardly. And then, with an infuriating eye-roll, Astarion decides to put you out of your misery.

“By all means, just take the food out of my mouth,” he says, breaking the silence to snatch back his apple, bringing his teeth to the crunchy white flesh exposed by your bite. “Milady,” he adds, seeing Wyll’s belligerent expression out of the corner of his eye.

“That’s Lady Crittermaid to you.”

This time, even Lae’zel chuckles.


	2. Camp Down-by-the-River: First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the crash, and your first dungeon at the Ravaged Beach temple, you have to face your first loss, your unexpected bloodlust and the fact that your natural lawful goody-to-shoes alignment might not be the most suited to survive your current predicament.  
> Astarion pretends to try to empathize, and maybe he even succeeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this retelling of the first hour of the game, Tavvy only encounters Shadowheart and Astarion before entering the overgrown temple. The party doesn't know about resurrection scrolls, or that the Talkative Skeleton would eventually turn up at camp, so when Shadowheart is yeeted off a cliff and dies, Tavvy thinks that it's permanent. Obviously, Tav doesn't know about Astarion's little secret either -- not that he's being particularly subtle.

“You sleep. I will keep watch,” says Astarion the first night at camp, and you are so tired, so beyond scared, that you decide to trust him despite his blank look and tense smile. You have seen that look before, in merchants desperate to unload the goods they carried to market, but never directed at you. Your brain balances the very real possibility that he might try to kill you and rob you while you sleep with the fact that he would never manage to jump you. He already tried back at the beach and failed miserably.

Besides, what are your other options? To stay awake? To kill him first?

So you nod, and bundle up inside the dusty bedroll, hand curled around your dagger and body curled around your hands, as close to the fire as possible because despite the clear sky and mild weather you are freezing. The bedroll smells likes its previous owner – one of the scavengers who attacked you at the ravaged beach temple, convinced that you were trying to kill them first to steal their loot. Which is what ended up happening after they cut you, fireballed Shadowheart and shot Astarion.

You bundle up tighter. Astarion is reading one of the books you took back from the temple's chapel, and you turn around so that he cannot see your face.

You didn’t know you had it in you to kill so many people, so quickly. They cut you first, and that almost felt like a bad joke, a misunderstanding. You had said all the right things, you were trying to help them stay away from the clawed brains that had almost killed you, from any mind-controlling squidmen that might make them drown themselves or worse. You stared at your shoulder, the sliced leather, blood bursting from your skin under the burning sun, and barely had time to mouth, “Wait…” before Shadowheart bathed you in blue light, healing your wound, and Astarion slit the halfling’s throat in front of your eyes.

Then a fireball hit the cleric, and you understood. It burned as if it was your skin, and the rage at THEM daring to touch US took over. It felt good pushing them off the cliff, it felt FANTASTIC to trick their friend to open the door, and you had never felt as alive as when you used their own oil to burn the scavengers in the ancient dormitories, their screams warming your heart.

Who the hell are you – you barely even knew Shadowheart. Why was your body so eager to kill. And now Shadowheart is dead, dead and gone. Her absence gnaws at your stomach.

You hear the rustle of silk and the crinkling of leather and the thumping of parchment as Astarion stands up.

“I know that I said that I would keep watch, but nature’s calling – I’ll be back in…” he pauses, and you sense a tremble in your connection, a feathery mind probe, barely a peek. It feels like the expert fingering of a sly pickpocket testing your purse’s strings.

You barely have time to put up walls before he retreats and then sighs, exasperated at what he has seen.

“By the gods, don’t tell me that you are crying over some spilled guts,” Astarion says, walking around the fire to stand over your head, hand on hip. “You grew up on Baldur’s Gate, it cannot be the first time that you’ve been at the right end of a blade.”

You roll your eyes, and don’t answer. He taps his foot.

“What kind of ranger are you, getting squeamish at some dead bodies?” he wonders. “Next you will tell me that you only eat seeds and leaves, like a bunny.”

You scoff, turning on your back and looking up to take in his face, upside down, at the stars shining behind his silvery hair. Raised eyebrow, pursed smile. Infuriating.

“Sure. What kind of magistrate are you to enjoy hands-on murder so much?”

Astarion laughs. “Oh my, what a catch -- silly pup, all magistrates enjoy a little death now and then; it’s basically a job requirement.”

Your irritation swells. You know that he’s mocking you; there’s a double-entendre bulging under his words that you can’t quite decipher, which in turn proves him right. You are too naïve, and you’d better catch up or you will be eaten alive even before the tadpole eats you.

Astarion must feel your anger, because he squats next to you now. You swear to yourself and to any mind-flayer parasites tuning in that if he pats your head you will cut his hand. Instead, Astarion just stares at you for an instant, the same way that you looked at wounded beasts in Baldur’s Gate’s parks, assessing the risk of trying to ease their pain. Sometimes, if their wound ran too deep or their mind was too far gone, you had to put them out of their misery.

You hold his gaze, aching for a fight.

Astarion’s eyes are very red, and his smirk has slowly morphed into a severe line. Suddenly, he looks very old, very tired and very beautiful, like an oil painting that has been hidden in the attic for centuries, shrouded with old sheets. Silence stretches for a minute, broken by a log collapsing in the fire.

“For what it’s worth, you did the right thing,” he finally says. “They were not good people, if that matters to you -- and they were clearly stupid, which matters to me. They should have believed you. Even a blind buffoon could have seen that you were telling the truth. And attacking us, well, that was the summum of idiocy.”

“Maybe if I had lied, they would still be alive,” you say, surprising yourself. Is that really what you regret? You remember Shadowheart’s grunt when the archer pushed her off the cliff, the crunch of her skull against the rocks below. It's her who you want back, because she is part of "us" and the scavengers were not. “I should learn to do that.”

Astarion laughs, throwing his head back. His throat is very white, whiter even than the frilly shirt under his doublet. “Lying to save other people’s lives – to save them from themselves. Adorable. Bless your heart.”

You turn around again, frustrated and unseathing your dagger under the covers. Now you are hoping that he pats you in the head so that you can cut him.

“Don’t be a sourpuss, sweetheart. Look, you cannot lie to save lives, alright? That’s not how deception works. Unless you are a consummate liar, your opponent will smell the stink of desperation and they _will_ use it against you. In your case, it might be better to threaten to use their intestines as Harvestfest décor and be done with it. No need to overcomplicate things.”

“But that would also be a lie,” you point out, sitting up and facing him again. “Because I don’t like gore. And I’ve never wanted to kill anyone.”

Astarion smiles again, a slow and malicious affair that makes the tadpole wiggle behind your eye and sends a chill up your spine. “Now, that’s more like it.”

“That wasn’t a lie,” you hiss. “It’s the truth.”

“Of course it is. It’s not as if we had a connection that let me feel your joy when you skewered that rude mage like she was the main dish in a goblin barbecue.”

You grit your teeth, you set your jaw, you clench your fists. It’s all for nothing. Astarion just smiles like one would at a skull headed child, which you might well be in his eyes.

How long do High Elves live, anyway?

He reaches out, holding your chin in place for a moment, a knowing look in his bloody eyes, and then opens his hand out, cupping your cheek, and you have to fight two contrary impulses with all your might: that of pushing him to the ground, hard, and that of leaning in, giving up and taking whatever simulacrum of comfort he’s offering.

His fingertips curl behind your earlobe, following the exterior line of your ear until they reach the tip. It does feel good, to be touched so softly, even by a lying, murderous stranger. You are suddenly aware that you are alone, together, in the middle of nowhere, that the fire has warmed up the ground, that the river would cover any sounds. That no-one would find you.

You have never been alone with someone before. Panic, or something close to it, unfolds inside your chest.

Astarion’s eyes flicker from your eyes to the ear that he was touching oh-so-softly, and his demeanor changes again, teasing, verging on insulting. “Huh. You must have excellent hearing. Top of your Tracking class, I’m sure,” he says, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

And just like that, the spell is broken. You pull back your face and Astarion pulls back his hand, dusting it on his doublet.

“A little long in the teeth yourself, grandpa,” you answer.

“The better to eat you with,” he answers without missing a beat. He stands up, waves a hand at your face, starts strutting towards the trees. “Just joking, of course. Anyway, if you could just avoid to be devoured by any bloodthirsty beast or attacked by an undead fiend for another few moments while I attend to my needs, that would be grand.”

“Please. As if any of those monsters could sneak up on me,” you answer, standing up and walking towards the riverbed. “Go. I’ll be here. Boiling water for tomorrow’s tea.”

But he’s already gone.

You take off your boots and wiggle your toes in the cool, fresh water, try to clear your head. At least you are used to walking long distances, and you have not acquired any angry blisters. The jagged half-moon birthmark on your right foot's arc is a bit redder than usual; maybe you should put some balm on it. After all, the only healer that you found is dead, and now you are on your own.

Regret washes over you again, and longing for the person you were before you killed those scavengers and enjoyed it.

And all for… what? A couple of dusty books, a coin that throbs when you touch it and a medallion that lets you speak to the dead? Books that cannot be read, a coin that cannot be spent and dead that cannot come back to walk under the sun.

Your tadpole tugs at you, but this doesn’t feel like Astarion. No – this connection is as irritated as you are, which feels refreshing. Then you hear splashing, and see a canoe sliding downriver to you, its oars clumsily hitting waves, rocks and fish. The Talkative Kkeleton is still, watching a resurrected Shadowheart do all the work, and she is cursing like Toril’s most ladylike sailor.

Your jump into the river to help guide their boat to shore.

Everything’s going to be fine.


	3. The One Where Auntie Ethel Saves Your Butt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tavvy, AKA Lady Crittermaid, walks back from the grove with Auntie Ethel. An alternative version of the first encounter with our favorite procurer of potions and lotions.
> 
> Huh hey I think there's even a smidge of a plot in this one. It's also almost 4000 words of talking to an old lady, so don't come asking me where's the smut, this is not the one-shot where you want to get the good-good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the domains and duties of rangers and druids overlap, they don’t always have the same interests at heart. Rangers are concerned with human safety in the wilderness, while many druids would happily let an avalanche bury any settlements to preserve nature. Fun fact: the first Green Hag was a druid who laid with a ranger who had been cutting down trees to craft his weapons. She was cursed by the same woods that she had sworn to protect. She cut the ranger up so efficiently that not a drop of blood left in the wood’s soil.  
> Lady Crittermaid is a ranger, because who would NOT want to speak to animals in this game.

You use your psychic connection with Wyll to show him where your secluded campsite, and areshocked at the immediate loyalty that pours through the link, warm and fiery like a fine dwarven brew. You smile back at him, dizzy with intense trust, and keep smiling at his back as he walks away.

“Are you going to need a handkerchief, darling? If so, you’d better hurry, I think these… merchants… are closing down for the night,” asks Astarion.

Shadowheart is also smirking at your expression, so of course Lae’zel has to interject. Anything to butt heads with each other. “He had the scars of an experienced warrior; it’s only natural for this fledgling to feel attracted to his prowress.”

Astarion rolls his eyes and mutters, “Yes, prowress. If that’s how you call it.” Lae’zel ignores him.

“But the elf is right, we should consider going back to camp. We have to prepare the expedition to the crèche tomorrow.” She pats a leather pocket which contains both Zevlor’s map and Zorru’s notations. “We have to be prepared and rested for purification.”

Shadowheart scoffs, and then looks at the deepening sky. “Prayer is nearing,” she says. “I would like to head back too, but we have nothing to eat tonight. If only someone would have agreed to accept some of the grove’s supplies as payment for our services.”

That someone is you, of course. Your stomach grumbles, but you know better than to voice your regrets over your past decisions to this bunch. You’ve only known them for a day, but you are pretty sure that they would never let you live it down.

Lae’zel nods. “There’s only so much watery teeth-ling gruel a traveler can eat. We should requisition their meats.”

“No,” you say curtly, which elicits another eyeroll. “That would be wrong. These people barely have any food left for the grove or for the road, and they are already at each other’s throats as it is. We should procure our own food.”

“One could almost argue that the goblins did them a favour, thinning their herd,” Astarion muses. “It sounds like that Halsin who got caught was a big fellow; I would wager that he ate like a bear.”

That gives you an idea. “Start on your way, get the fire going if Gale has not. I’ll take care of dinner.”

* * *

It is surprisingly easy to convince the bear Ormn to part with bucketful of his pile of fish, freshly caugh under the sacred pool; it barely takes five minutes of promising to rescue Halsin – his best friend, his very own companion, his favourite druid. “For strength,” the bear says, staring into the horizon. “May they lend you their fins to swim up this foul stream.”

Before leaving the grove, you take a last dip into Silvanus’ Pool, asking for the Oakfather’s blessing to make your feet faster than a doe’s, to make you invisible to harm. A green glow, gentle like shy ferns, kisses your temples and lifts your spirits. You wonder if this how your distant ancestors felt, if there is a bit of a wood elf’s soul still inside of you that hasn’t been diluted by generations of mixed marriages. In moments like these, you are certain of it.

You thought that you were quick, but there’s no-one around the gate when you climb back, and no sounds other than the harmonics of owls and crickets. It’s peaceful, that scent of creeping ivy and crawling hawthorn that covers the millennia-old rocks that the druids used to wall the grove. If you hurry, you will be at camp before the moon rises above the treetops. Your mouth waters at the thought of roasted trout, the greasy crunch of its skin under your teeth, and you are so pleasantly distracted that when a tall, broad figure crosses your path and spits at your feet it catches you by surprise.

It’s the librarian – Khaga’s helper, more zealous than she is, all rage and no brains to temper it despite his profession. In any other circumstance, you would have considered him handsome, but now he’s looking at you with such disgust that you only see a predator. He’s gripping his sickle so tightly that his knuckles have turned white.

“That,” he says, pointing his weapon at the bucket, “Is not yours to take.” He spits again, shakes his amber mane like a young lion about to maul you.

“I made a deal with Ormm,” you say very slowly, inching back into the shadows. “I promised to bring back Halsin and he gave me his fish.” It’s not as if you had any other option, after Halsin’s apprentice tried to kill you. Might as well get dinner for the road.

“Halsin was the one who got us into this mess! He raised the gate to that vermin! And you want to bring him _back_? You are worse than the treasure hunters that dragged him there and as bad as the swarm of devils, robbing nature of its bounty to feed your greedy little mouth. Won’t be staying long enough to feel the price, like a roaming parasite.”

You take another step back, and let the fish bucket drop. “So, what is it?” you bite back, realizing that this dumb druid is not going to let you go, no matter how conciliatory you try to be. “Do you want strangers to leave or to stick around for a while?”

He sneers, a cruel little grimace. “If it was up to me, I would feed your entrails to the Oakfather’s wolves. Let your blood strengthen the Ritual of Thorns.” He twirls the sickle in his hand, and you can see the veins bulging on his arms, smell the hatred in his eyes. The tadpole behind your eye squirms, furious and struggling to reach out to your companions and failing miserably. They are too far away, and it is still very young, too weak.

You are on your own.

And then a hand slaps the druid across the face, twice, hard. “Now pup, that was a mighty rude thing to say to your guest – apologize immediately.”

The person behind the hand is an old lady. She was pushing a cart filled with flasks and bottles, helped by two supremely indifferent sheep strapped to the front. Her hair is as white as the sheeps’ wool, and her hand has left a rash across the druid’s face and neck. She furrows her brow and taps her foot, and to your immense surprise, the young druid looks down sheepishly.

“Yes, Auntie. Of course,” he turns to you, all the fight drained from him. “I’m sorry. It’s been a trying tenday.”

‘Auntie’ clears her throat, and the druid picks up the bucket that you dropped, puts it back on your hands. “If you want, I can walk you to your camp. The roads are not safe anymore.” he offers in earnest. He sounds so eager to please you that if hadn’t threatened to gut you thirty seconds ago, you would almost think that he was trying to court you.

But the last thing you need is this bloodthirsty bigot with mood swings to know where you sleep. “No, thank you.”

“Good boy. Then be on your way,” the old lady says, and the druid scampers back to the heart of the grove, leaving the two of you alone at the gate’s threshold.

‘Auntie’ seems nice enough. Her back is straight and she must have been beautiful in her youth. She still has light blue eyes that glint in the dark and abundant hair neatly tied back in two tidy buns. She looks you up and down, and then pats you on the back. “Petal, you must be more careful from now on. These grumpy gardeners are looking for any excuse to pluck your fingers off your hands.” She shakes her head like so many women her age do, wondering about the state of the world. “If you ask me, it’s not natural for elves of his age to remain stuck in one spot for such a long time. A grove! My goodness, he should be frolicking with nymphs and traveling with his friends, like you and your merry band.”

“Thank you so much,” you say, moving in to push her cart. She waves you away, silly puppy, she’s still strong as a yew and she’s very particular about her potions and lotions. “I don’t know what would have happened if you had not stepped in.”

“Oh, I think that he would have been in for a nasty surprise. Pale as you are, petal, I’m sure that you have a trick or too up your sleeve. But that boy is a crybaby, he would have woken the entire forest if you gave him as much as a scratch, and that would have been terrible. The druids might have taken your head and the head of anyone who tried to help you, too.”

“Oh.”

An owl hoots. You are walking downhill, towards the water, the sheep keeping pace behind you in complete silence.

“I’m Auntie Ethel,” says the old lady.

“Pleasure. I’m Tavvy,” you say, smiling back at her. “Are you a druid too?” you ask politely, although you kind of know she isn’t.

“Oh, no, I could never. I love my creature comforts too much.” she confirms. “Although I’m pretty sure that one of my grannies was. I have just lived in this area for a very long time, helping the folk of this land from my little teahouse right at the edge of the forest.” Her nose wrinkles. “Or at least that’s what I used to do, until those little gobbos started burning hamlets, mills and forts a few months ago. Now there are barely any families left in the area.” Auntie Ethel sighs, hand over heart, and you nod sympathetically. Her eyes glint with tears. “I just miss helping people so much. The druids might howl at the moon all they want, but it has been awfully lonesome for about a year now, with everyone gone or killed. And it’s not like their prickly bunch are the kind to start their own families, they very much prefer to commune with lynxes and bears. Sometimes I wonder if the halfling ones are into hedgehogs and squirrels. Unnatural business, using “Mother Nature” as an excuse.”

You snort. She smiles, sweet like finely aged honeycomb.

“Thank the gods for the devilkin refugees, despite their antics. At least they have little ones and an enterprising spirit. But enough about me, dearie, tell me about you. The whole grove was talking about your little band and how you saved the day. You even impressed the Queen of Snakes herself, and snatched up that handsome fellow, Wyll.”

“It was nothing,” you say, blushing for a moment. “We were not trying to be heroes or anything, it was just… one moment we were walking down the road and the next we were surrounded by goblins and bugbears who wanted to kill everyone.”

Auntie Ethel clacks her tongue. “Pish posh – who cares about intentions, what matters is results. Although I must say, petal – I would have never looked at you and your band and thought ‘there goes a group of storybook heroes!’ “ Auntie Ethel catches your eye, raising a finger to her lips, a coy smile. “No offense intended. The noseless yellow warrior – maybe, and that tall, dark and snarky cleric, probably. But you look greener than a springtime sweet pepper, and that light-fingered elf seems more precious princeling than powerful paladin.”

“That, he’s definitely not.” You say, laughing again despite yourself. Auntie Ethel’s country charm feels comforting, like spicy tea on a rainy day. “But I’m grateful for every single one of their hidden talents.”

Auntie Ethel pats your hand and laces her arm with yours. You realize that the cart is pushing itself; maybe someone magicked with a permanent movement spell. “Dearie, you don’t have to pretend with me,” she says after a minute of silence. “I remember how hard it was, trying to keep up with the cool kids when I felt like a feathered frog most of the time. And I wasn’t as sweet as you are – matter of fact, I was more like your friends! Strong personality, a wee paranoid. Youth! We all think that our secrets are so precious and unique, when really everyone is going through the same issues over and over. But it must be so hard to keep them in line sometimes.”

Something in Auntie Ethel’s tone shifts -- the way her tone lightens when she says the word “line” irks you, and you look at her, but she’s the picture of placidity. “They are nice enough,” you say as convincingly as you can. “They have my back, and I have theirs.”

“Oh, I know, I can see that. For the time being, at least. Until they have to go their way. How did y’all meet in the first place, anyway? Don’t tell me that you were inside a boat when that giant crayfish fell from the sky!”

You coil your apprehension at the pit of your stomach. “Something like that. We found each other among the wreckage, and we are all trying to get to Baldur’s Gate. That’s home for me,” you clarify. “And for some of them.”

“Good, good. At least you have a common goal. Still – I would hate it if they woke up on the wrong side of the bedroll one morning and decided to take advantage of your kind heart.” she says, holding your hand. She seems so earnest. “Tell you what, I will let you into a little secret – that druid lad who wanted to practice his carving skills on your ribcage? He wasn’t very nice to me either the first time we met. Called me an old hag and everything!”

That doesn’t surprise you.

“But a day later he was eating from my palm. Turns out that all he needed was little liquid persuasion inside his morning tea.” she leans over the moving cart and produces a dinked brown bottle, corked and sealed with wax. It has a crude engraving of a daisy missing a single petal.

Auntie Ethel shakes the bottle three times and presses it on your palm. “Keep it. Just in case – it’s better than a charm spell, a few drops and even a rabid bugbear will just want to please you.”

You stare at the little flask. It doesn’t look that different from the bottle where you keep the oil for your arrows and knives. You think about Shadowheart’s and Lae’zel’s vicious bickering, about Astarion’s midnight excursions to the deepest part of the forest, about Gale’s avoidance of anything even remotely personal. About their insinuation that death at the sight of the first symptom of ceremorphosis would be the best path, which could so very easily be turned into an excuse to slit your throat if they tired of you or each other.

“Just one drop for each of them. Maybe two for your favorite one, if you want to have a bit of fun.” Auntie Ethel says, giggling like a maiden.

You blush again and push any thoughts involving “fun” to the roadside. It is tempting, though, should it work. It would buy you some much-needed peace of mind. It also feels extremely wrong – not just for moral reasons, but logical ones. How did a helpless old lady trick a druid within his own grove? And why is she telling this to a perfect stranger – you could very well decide to sell her to Khaga or Nettie to get in their good graces. She would be banished from the grove, possibly worse. Is she not afraid? But, regardless, so many people have attacked you in the past day that you know that you need a united front with your party. You cannot afford more dissent, more in-fights, or any treason.

Just one drop. _Or two, if you need some release._ You could use it in the fish, and none would be the wiser.

It’s just some liquid insurance, says a little voice inside of you. It sounds afraid, but you should be afraid, that’s a very reasonable emotion, considering. Your companions are probably scared out of their wits too, whether they admit it or not. Deep down, you know that it’s only a matter of time before one of them snaps, and it won’t be just due to the tadpole.

Maybe you are the one slipping right now.

Regretfully, you push the daisy flask back into Auntie Ethel’s hand.

“I cannot accept this,” you say, and you cannot believe that you are saying it. You are pretty sure that all of your companions would have happily accepted. Auntie Ethel starts to protest and instinct tells you that you have to thread carefully, you don’t want to offend her, so you quickly add. “I really want to, it’s so thoughtful and kind, but all my gold is at the bottom of the river.” You point at your bucket of fish. “I have to make deals with a bear to eat, that’s how broke I am. I couldn’t repay you, and I already owe you for saving me tonight.”

“But darling girl, this is a gift so that I don’t have to save you tomorrow too! Please, take it,” she tucks it inside your pocket. “There. I would never let any of my nieces leave the house without it.” You start again, and she hushes you. “If you really want to pay me back, why don’t you and your friends come by my stall tomorrow, hmm? I would love to meet them properly and make sure that you are all set up for your journey. Your money might be gone, but I’m sure that one of them could strike a deal with – “

She stops walking because her cart hits something big laying across her path. The flasks clank and tinkle, and she lays a protective hand over them before leaning over. She squints at the shape, but you don’t need to. “Ah doe,” you say, surprised.

“A dead doe, more like it.” Auntie Ethel goes down on one knee to check on the poor beast. “The druids are going to rage like werewolves if the tieflings hunted her down,” she adds. “Check her side, look for arrows or traps.”

But there are no arrows on her flank or trap tangled around her neck. She was healthy and young, less than a year old judging by her fading fawn spots. “She looks fine. No vomit, no strange scent. No wounds.”

“Strange,” says Auntie Ethel, looking at the doe’s neck, probably checking for ticks. “Maybe she died of a broken heart. Wouldn’t be the first. Still, it would be a waste to leave her for the gnolls. Why don’t you put her on my cart? I’ll pay you with venison pasties for your trouble, much better than that tiefling gruel.”

You heap the dead doe in your arm, carefully plying her head and legs inside the cart. She’s much lighter than she looks, and when you start moving her tongue lolls out. It should have been pink, but it’s greyish-white, a symptom of anemia – or of extreme bloodletting. You’ve seen these symptoms before in the parks and cemeteries of Baldur’s Gate, animals drained of their blood, but they were usually rats, cats or squirrels. It usually meant that a vampire had been close, one desperate enough to feed on animals instead of people. You reach for the doe’s neck, and there they are – two sagging punctures among the fur, roughly at the same distance as a humanoid mouth. You gulp as you reach a fork in the road.

“Well, dearie, this is where we separate,” says Auntie Ethel. “I’m counting that you will keep your word and drop by tomorrow with your friends.”

“Auntie Ethel,” you start, and then stop. She had checked the doe’s neck, and she seems undisturbed and unafraid. “I think that a vampire might have killed her.”

“Oh, yes, a vampire definitely drank the poor thing dry,” she answers nonchalantly. “Did me a favour, though – it will be so much easier to cut her up. Less of a mess.”

Her sheep walk past you into a moonlit reedy lake. One of them bumps your leg, and something on its wool catches and scratches your exposed knee. Ouch.

“Let me walk you to your home, Auntie,” you ask. “It’s not safe.”

Auntie Ethel laughs, pats your cheek. “Oh, petal --- don’t worry about me. My home is surrounded by water, any vampire that tried to follow me would be covered in boils and scabs before they could say “boo!”. Besides, the one who drained this little lady here must be full to burst. I’m in no danger!”

Her eyes glint, and she lets her hand drop. “Your companions will be worried – or worse, hungry! You should hurry back.” She touches the pocket where her daisy flask is tucked. “Don’t forget, you will bring them by tomorrow, top of the day.” You nod, still looking at the dead doe. She follows your gaze. “I have other potions, sweet pea, that do not cost a whole lot. One to look a bit into the future, to see any immediate threats. One to read the thoughts of your nearest or dearests. Think about it on your way back. And keep to the riverside, just in case you stumble upon this greedy piggy bloodsucker.”


	4. Camp Down-by-the-River: I see you shiver with antici-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different take on Astarion's reveal.

The camp looks different when you arrive. Your companions have put up tents and moved their luggage inside. You think you recognize some of the dead fishermen’s sails from the ravaged beach and a few moth-eaten banners from the ruined temple and some of the colourful cloths that hung in the Tiefling hide-out.

It almost looks homey.

Shadowheart is deep in prayer in front of her tent, chin over heart and eyes closed. Wyll is nursing the fire and cradling a mug of beer, and Gale and Lae’zel are engaged in psionic arm-wrestling. Gale has a friendly twinkle in his eye, while Lae’zel looks positively murderous. Astarion is nowhere to be seen.

Wyll stands up when he sees you, and to your surprise and delight he produces a bolt of cloth the shade of deep-forest ivy. “A well-met gift. I got this from one of the Tieflings – she swore that it was fire-resistant.”

“But not waterproof?” you ask, pointing at the cloudy sky, waving at the river.

“Elturel’s refugees have different priorities,” he shrugs, pushing the bolt to you.

You touch the cloth. It’s silky smooth with a deep blue shift. Back in Baldur’s Gate, it would have decorated the windows of the High City mansions. Someone – probably a child – has been practicing embroidery on the edges of the bolt, and clumsy but charming leaves and stars in yellow thread are starting to unravel. You smile at Wyll, and thank him sincerely, and he promises to help you set up your tent after dinner.

“Don’t worry about it, “you say. “I’m setting up over there, next to the temple, so that I can wash my clothes and take a bath tonight. But you can help me prepare the fish.”

You drop your bounty and your bum on a flat rock by the river, close to the Skeleton. He is staring far into the distance, humming an eerie tune and purposely ignoring you. You clean the fish, piling the heads at the bottom of the bucket. You will simmer those with some herbs and river mussels and kelp to make a hearty stock that will be ready in the morning, salty, abundant and filling. It’s smelly and slippery work, but you are done quickly, and after scraping guts and scales off your hands you go back to Wyll, who has used a knife to shape dry branches into wooden skewers.

“Where’s Astarion?” you ask Shadowheart and Lae’zel once everyone is getting started on their second trout.

Shadowheart shrugs. “He wanted to take a detour. He didn’t quite believe that you would provide food for everyone, nor that it would be adequate for his refined palate. I’m paraphrasing,” she clarifies when she sees your eyeroll. “But that was the gist of it.”

“Isn’t Astarion the pasty elf with the High City drawl and the puffy sleeves?” asks Wyll, throwing a cleaned fishbone to the fire.

“That’s the one,” says Gale.

“Should we be worried that the goblins got him?”

You exchange a look with Shadowheart. She was with you your first night at camp, right after her miraculous return from the dead, and after you caught up, pooled your resources and pried into each other’s motives you realized that Astarion had been away for almost an hour. You spent the rest of the night combing the forest together only for him to emerge unscathed and ecstatic right before the break of dawn. He dismissed your worry by pointing out that he had just been meditating with nature, something “that two mongrel half-elves would never be able to understand” and that he had been perfectly safe all the time.

“If that “Absolute” really wants the goblins to atone for their sins, then Astarion might fall in one of their traps,” Shadowheart says.

You chuckle, and so do Wyll and Gale. Lae’zel doesn’t. She’s still fuming that Gale won the psionic arm-wrestling match, and as soon as she’s finished she stands up and stomps back to her tent.

“My friend, maybe you should let the green valkyrie win the next time,” suggests Wyll.

“I wanted to,” says Gale, reaching for another trout and sprinkling the white, crumbly flesh with crushed rosemary. “But I was too scared that she would take that as an insult and rip my real arm off. Although to be completely honest, I think that I only won because my adrenaline kicked in, she’s absolutely terrifying.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes, biting back a quip, and you smile into your plate. “What was the wager?” you inquire.

Gale’s eyes twinkle like a cheery crucible. “Nothing big. She promised that if we ever found ourselves in the Astral Plane, she would have to act as my guide.”

You stare at him, mid-bite. “And why would we – well, you two—ever be in the Astral Plane at all?”

Gale raises an eyebrow as he chews, as if the answer should be obvious to you, and then quickly adjusts his expectations.

“You never know where our quest for a cure might take us,” he finally says, shrugging. “Besides, I have always wanted to visit the Astral Plane. Haven’t you?” he asks, looking around the fire.

Shadowheart gives a little nod, and Wyll says that he will follow the monsters he hunts anywhere in the universe, but you shake your head. You just want to get the parasite out and go home. This plane is far enough for you.

* * *

There’s a little temple across the brook. Its roof has long since collapsed, and there are vines snaking over once ornate columns. The only way to reach it is by walking over a fallen tree trunk, and the new tents stand between your companion’s eyes and the temple, offering you as much privacy as you need. Shadowheart asks for dibs for the next night.

After clearing the ground and setting up your brand new tent, you take off your leather vest and vambraces, your boots and stockings and small clothes until you are left in the long, dark green tunic and then you take that off too, feeling for new snags in the fabric.

It’s well-worn, mended and patched, and the years or use have turned the homespun fabric into soft muslin. You put it over your head three dawns ago, when you thought that you were heading to Insight Park to teach a group of lordling basic survival skills. Instead, a giant flying crayfish snatched you up from the sky.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

You wash your small clothes, stockings, and tunic as thoroughly as possible and twist them this way and that, squeezing out every last drop and then you hang them over a branch to dry. 

When you slide into the silvery-black water your leg burns for a moment where the ewe’s thistle cut you, but soon your body is sheathed in cold liquid and you feel safer, cleaner, and happier than you have been in days.

The river is deeper than it looks, but it feels good to dip your head under the surface and let the current take all the dust from the road, all the blood from the battles. You have fought and killed more in the last three days than in your entire life. Your hair undulates around your eyes like a dark cloud as you step over the slimy rocks at the bottom. Something grazes your ankle and swims away.

You stay underwater as long as you can hold your breath, and when you break the surface you almost feel regret – the air feels too cold, the stars too bright, the night too loud.

And the pale elf rummaging through your things is way too nosy.

“Hey!” You say, splashing back to shore. “What do you think you are doing?”

Astarion startles for one heartbeat, holding your doublet in one hand and one boot in the other, but his surprise quickly morphs into a delighted smirk. His eyes dart down to your chest, barely covered by the water.

“What do _you_ think you are doing, little eel? Giving the tadpole a bath?”

“Get your hands off my stuff!” you say, splashing at him. Your things are already wet, after all, and it works, because Astarion jumps back and hisses as if you had hit him with acid. “Were you robbing me? What the hells?!”

Astarion drops your boot, which he had been daintily holding between two fingers, but doesn’t release your vest.

“Oh, no, I am not robbing you while you bathe. How much of a cliché do you think I am?” he asks with a grimace of distaste. “I assumed that you were throwing a _warm, private_ welcome party to the Blade of Frontiers. I didn’t expect to find you’d hogged the best sleeping spot of the camp.”

“Bullshit! You don’t even sleep!”

“That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy some _me_ time. What am I supposed to do, go for a hike in the forest every time that I need to clear my head? Because even without Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s constant bickering, it’s already very noisy in here,” he taps his temple, and you seethe.

“Get lost.”

“See, you get it,” Astarion sighs dramatically, heaving his weight into what’s left of an altarpiece and crossing his legs at the ankles. He’s at least twenty feet away from the water. You hope he gets eaten by mosquitos. “Besides, when one walks the path less trodden, one hears the most interesting conversations from other travelers,” he says conversationally, reaching into the pocket of your padded leather vest.

Your heart skips a beat.

That’s where Auntie Ethel put the daisy flask. You lower your body deeper in the water so that only your nose and eyes remain above the surface. Shame, dark and viscous, fills your stomach, followed by another flash of rage at Astarion for spying on you – twice. It’s not as if you were planning to use the drops.

_Weren’t you?_

Astarion is prodding again in your mind, wriggling questions through your link, and you push back with all your might. He yields, inviting you into this memory with a satisfied smirk, and you see yourself and Ethel through his eyes, well hidden behind thick thornbushes and hanging ivy. There’s Ethel’s glint, and the shadows of temptation, gratitude and doubt fleeting over your face, your relief when despite your insistence Ethel tucked the little flask over your hip. Your mouth – Astarion’s mouth – is warm and metallic, your stomach growling despite the feast…

The link breaks. Astarion narrows his eyes in your direction, holding the flask between his index and thumb.

“So you had dinner?” you ask, still seething.

“Luckily. I don’t really care about anything that swims,” he says, sniffing the air, where the charred trout scent still lingers.

“What did you hunt down?” you ask, swimming slowly to shore, as you connect the dots – his constant looks at your neck, his nightly escapades, his pain when the water hit him, and even his delight at walking under the sun, even when it beat down like a hammer and everyone, even Shadowheart, was drenched in sweat and dust -- and realize that Astarion is not just an obnoxious high-class twit, but something more. Or less, depending on whom you ask.

 _Shit_.

Astarion’s face is masked by the shadows of the temple, but the light of the moon catches his teeth. This should be your cue to be afraid, but instead you feel irritation at yourself for not realizing it sooner, and a bone-deep cold freezing you in place.

“I think that you know what I caught, darling. And if you don’t, you know what they say – curiosity killed the catfish. But let’s circle back to the real scandal here… this.” he shakes the little flask three times, just like Auntie Ethel did. “How greedy to hoard the power to make anyone dote on your every whim to yourself. Did you spice the evening meal with its contents?”

You shake your head, outraged.

“Are you blind as well as a thief?” you ask. “The wax seal is intact. And I wasn’t going to use it. You saw what I intended just now!”

“What you intend to do and what you might do are two very different things," Astarion says. "Desperate people do desperate things. What did that old crone call her little potion? Ah, yes, “liquid insurance”. Well, in _my_ opinion, sprinkling this in our food is not better than forcing your will on _us_ through the tadpole, controlling _us_ like puppets. Not that you even know how to use something like this. You might miscalculate, and next thing you know Gale would be taking you over a boulder while Lae’zel claims you as one of Vla’akith’s honorary space lizards. I don’t know which part of that scenario would be more distasteful.”

“Oh, because _you_ know how to use it?” you are lie belly down on the shallow end of the river, your fists curled around two slimy stones. If he tries to walk away with the flask – if he tries anything, you will hurl the rocks at him and then charge, and trust that your nudity will make you extra slippery in a fight.

“I know the correct dosage for most poisons in Faerun. You wouldn’t believe the depravities I’ve seen…” his lip curls, and he winks at you, as if sharing a particularly juicy inside joke “…as a magistrate. I could tell you, if you want. Or, if you insist on being so uncouthly aggressive…” he brings the stoppered flask to his teeth, and bites down, breaking the wax seal. “… I could hurl this little bottle into the river _right now_ , let it seep into your skin, and watch while it works it magic. It’s been ages since I could pull the strings of my very own puppet.”

“I could scream,” you say. He nods slowly, as if that’s a very reasonable suggestion.

“By all means, go ahead. Then explain to everyone what you were doing with _this_ , and why you didn’t mention it during dinner. I don’t think that they will be as open-minded as I am. At best, they will think that you don’t trust them, and that will poison this merry little alliance. At worst, they will believe you are lying and they _will_ cut you down.”

He is probably right, but still -- you cannot resist throwing a stone at him, tensing your other arm in case the first one doesn’t connect. He dodges it, and raises the hand holding the flask, threatening to follow through with his idea.

“I can always tell them that I planned to use this on our enemies,” you say, sliding back so that you can stand underwater.

“Then why wouldn’t you mention that it was part of your arsenal? We are practically a commune, with all the pooling of resources, if not our deepest personal secrets.”

“I don’t have any secrets,”

“So now you have one. You should be honoured that I helped you through your first time."

You throw the other stone, but your heart isn’t in it, and Astarion kicks it back to the river with a graceful move.

He knows he’s won.

Bloodsucking bastard.

Adding insult to injury, he jumps down from the altar, walks to your tent and rummages inside your backpack until he produces a clean-ish, threadbare robe. You’d found it in one of the backpacks of the ruined temple’s magicians. Useless even for Gale, but good enough for sleeping in while your clothes dry. He holds it out in your direction, smiling sweetly.

“I must say, it would be interesting to use this potion on our foes,” he says. “Quite hilarious if it works as promised."

You don't answer, partly because you cannot come up with a proper insult and partly because you are so cold that you fear your teeth will clatter if you speak. You can barely feel your toes now, and what makes you feel even worse is that there isn't a path to get out of the water without Astarion seeing you. There goes your dignity. Still, you stall, hoping for him to go away.

But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. Instead, he raises an expectant eyebrow and walks towards the river, as if he didn't fear that you would splash him again.

You cannot feel your lips, and you know that you are out of options. Maybe you should hear him out while you figure a way to get rid of the bottle.

“Turn around,” you say as imperiously as you can manage, channeling all the ladies of the High City and their butlers too.

“Absolutely not,” he answers gleefully, stepping forward and offering you his hand. Risky. You could pull him under, and that would hurt. Also a little patronizing. You slap it away, and to his credit Astarion doesn't hiss when the droplets hit him.

“That’s not very classy, for a high-class magistrate.”

“Better to be crass than stabbed in the back by a mongrel.”

He has a point, but that doesn’t mean that it makes you feel any better to rise from the river. Your hair feels heavy, soaking wet and stuck to your back and cheeks. There's water dripping from your shoulders, chest and knees, and goosebumps cover your entire body despite the anger burning inside you. You are exposed, vulnerable and you hate Astarion’s guts with the heat of a thousand fireballs.

If this was a fairy-tale, a goddess would take pity on you and transform Astarion into a deer, a wolf, or a bear that you could hunt down with your bow. You always thought that the gods were a bit dramatic over just a little nudity, but now you understand that they were being perfectly reasonable. Overly kind, even.

You reach for the robe and Astarion pulls it out of your reach. “I swear to Silvanus that I will strangle you while your trance,” you whisper furiously. “Give me that!”

He doesn’t. Instead, he unfolds and opens the robe, an invitation to trust him a little longer, and the perfect way to ensure that you don’t bag his head with the cloth and punch him in the stomach. You have used that trick to subdue aggressive beasties, but he's probably used to subduing people.

In the end it’s just easier to jam your arms through the sleeves. The faded fabric ripples down to the floor. Astarion ties the robe at your waist with a loose knot, and then adjusts the collar, which had folded under the weight of your wet hair. You feel colder than ever.

“I hate you,” you say when he’s done. You climb up the altar where he had been sitting down, and tying the robe’s skirts between your legs to allow for easy movement. You scoot over to the slab's edge and hug your knees. “What is the point of this? If you are really vampire and not just playing some sick mind games, then you can just charm people. You don’t need the potion at all. I would have never used it! Drop it in the river for all I care.”

Astarion shrugs and sits at the other end of the altar, with a hand supporting his chin. His eyes wander to your exposed legs. You follow his gaze to the curved cut on your calf, bright red against your skin, then to the half moon mark on the arc of your foot.

“What a strange scar,” he observes, as if commenting on the weather. “It almost looks like a bite.”

“To a smith everything looks like a hammer,” you retort. “I guess that to a vampire, everyone looks like a snack.”

Besides, it’s not a scar, it’s a birthmark. Not that it matters.

He snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. You might be clean right now, but that doesn’t make you appetizing. Unless…” he says, cocking his head to the side. “…unless you are _dying_ for a nibble, of course” you roll your eyes, and then you feel the enchantment in his voice, turning his polite drawl to a velvety murmur as heavy, soft and desirable as a brand new wolf pelt cloak.

When Astarion speaks again, his sharp teeth glimmer like pearly blades, and you feel the pull of his eyes, as vivid as arterial blood. “Tell me – would I be your first?” He leans in, playing the part of a man who is _only_ pretending to be hungry. He reaches out one of his spectral hands, and touches your foot lightly with his fingertips, drawing over your birthmark. You frown, but do not pull away. “I could make an exception, if this was your first time. I’ve never had a ranger, and I would bet my soul that you’ve never had a lover,”

“Easy for you to wager what you don’t have,” you say, but it comes out breathier than you’ve ever heard yourself. You shut up, stunned at your reaction, as the goosebumps in your skin yield to a blushing warmth, which, to your horror, you _enjoy_.

Still observing your reaction, Astarion grazes his knuckles from your ankle to your knee, and then uses his thumb to softly follow the tender wound on your calf back to the arc of your foot. His eyes are hooded, and his pupils dilated as if he’d drunk a gallon of foxglove cordial, darker than the deepest well and just as hypnotic.

"Hm, touché. I would wager a soul coin, but payment would strip the occasion of its magic, don't you think?"

You can hear the Charm spell woven through Astarion's voice, but that doesn’t make the moment any less enticing. A part of you wants to unfurl and reach out, touch his snowy hair, let him envelop you like a shadow. He moves closer, and now he’s so near that you can feel his breath. One of his curls tumbles over his eye, and suddenly, randomly, it occurs to you that Auntie Ethel’s sheep had similar curly wool that begged to be touched – but one of them drew your blood, however unintentionally.

“It could be delicious,” Astarion whispers, prowling closer, and you shiver.

Your heart beats like a war drum, but when you reach to the tadpole, you find it slack, smug -- thoroughly seduced and useless – _yet again_. Astarion is pushing strands of wet hair off your neck with one hand, and as your locks start dripping on the stone lab he gently pulls at the knot on your waist, teasing to undress you as soon as you give him a sign. Which you won't, because he's a manipulative asshole and he probably wants to drink you down to your marrow and then pretend that a giant mosquito got you in the night.

You close your eyes, and you feel him lean in, letting you do the work of angling your neck for him. The nerve. Instead you grasp for the fresh memory of cold water, slimy mud and stones, and to the reedy, uncomfortable emotions of embarrassment and anger to ground you. You meet his eyes with what you hope looks like an indignant snarl, yanking your leg back and tucking your foot under your robe.

Astarion lets the spell collapse with a smug little smile, scooting back to the opposite end of the altar. Without Charm the cold night air feels like a slap, but you grit your teeth, _grateful_ to have your five senses back under your control.

“See? It’s not as if Charm is unbreakable – even _you_ could slice right through it,” Astarion says, reverting to his flippant nonchalance as if he had never really intended to bite you, as if he was just proving a point. “Potions – anything you can drink or inject, really – just stays in your system longer. Sometimes forever,” he adds, staring into the distance, playing with the open flask.

You know that, of course. It was part of your training, and you have administered your fair share of droughts and oils. An unwelcome thought pops into your mind – if you drank Auntie Ethel’s potion and Astarion drank your blood, would he become fixated with you? Would that turn you into an irresistible morsel?

You push that specific question away, although it really makes you realize how little you know about the daisy flask, how incomplete and shallow Ethel’s instructions were. Are the effects based on you – in which case Ethel must have enchanted the liquid even before she met you, maybe by acquiring a hair or a nail or a little bit of spit, which is highly unlikely – or does the potion react to whoever is closest to the drinker, like an animal imprinting on the first face it sees?

Food for thought.

“You talk too much. If we are not going to fight to the death, and you are not going to give me back my flask, then what do you want?”

Astarion pouts, his gaze wandering from the treetops to the river to your hands, clasped firmly in front of your knees.

“I just want to have a bit of fun,” he eventually says. “It looks like we’re going to be stuck in this quest for a while, looking for a saviour to deliver us from the tadpoles, or even more tedious – from ourselves,” he sighs, and suddenly lies down on his back, taking up most of the slab with his body. He looks up at you, upside down, the picture of relaxed innocence. “Let’s experiment, for entertainment’s sake. Let’s play with it. I would like to see if it works on animals – that would make hunting so much easier.”

“For whom?”

“For everyone,” he answers guilessly. His eyes fleet back to your wounded leg, which is uncomfortably folded under your bum, and his fingertips follow to trace the cut again, full of longing, leaving pins and needles on their wake. “I don’t mind sharing my prey, if you let me toy with your game.”

From this angle, Astarion looks a bit like a sacrificial lamb. If you were armed, it would be the perfect position to slice his neck and rip his unbeating heart from his chest, which is a very strange thought to have when his touch makes your skin tingle.

It’s all an act on his part, of course. This studied vulnerability is not unlike a cambion’s glorious glamour or the otherworldly scent of carnivorous night orchids, but the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to jump down from the altar, away from his hands.

“It looks to me as if you enjoy playing with your food,” you say, covering your leg with the folds of the scavenged robe.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead turning around so that he’s lying on his side, head propped up over his shoulder. “Is that a yes, little eel? It’s not as if I needed your permission, but it would be better to partner up, just in case the potion goes awry and a wild hog decides to mate with either of us.”

The thought makes you chuckle despite yourself. “I would pay to see that,”

He smiles back, delighted. “Me too. Alright, I will divide this little flask into two vials, and we will head off for a _fun_ hunt tomorrow night. If we are still alive, squidless, etcaetera.”

“No way,” you say, snatching the flask from his hand. “I will keep it until tomorrow night, if you promise not to feed on anyone at camp, nor on any friends or allies that we might make on the road.”

“So be it. Although you befriended a clawed brain aboard that tentacled ship, darling,” he points out, walking to the riverside. “You are a terrible judge of character."

Astarion struts over the fallen tree trunk, ignoring the running water as if it was as inconsequential to him as fog. You wonder if he will try to bite anyone back at camp, Wyll, Lae’zel, Shadowheart or Gale, and what that would say about him, and how bad he is at picking prey.


End file.
